


John Watson, Latté Boy

by numberthescars



Series: Semi-Skimmed [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 14:21:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/numberthescars/pseuds/numberthescars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A single step in the wrong direction—yes. That was all he needed. </p><p>Coffee shop!AU, sequel (or rather, prequel from Sherlock's POV) to The Adventure of the Spilled Milk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Watson, Latté Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Despite being a prequel, this will make much more sense if you read 'Spilled Milk' first. Title inspired by [this video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zXS0nEOx_20), thanks to the wonderful zeovez. Unbetaed, so apologies for typos!
> 
> ETA: Major thanks to the wonderful anon who brit-picked this for me. You are wonderful, whoever you are! I didn't change the bit about loans because...lazy. Hey, maybe John needed the money for rent or something. :)

  


Sherlock’s first visit to Hudson’s Snacks n’ Snarnies was not a voluntary experience. Mycroft, sick and tired of Sherlock’s unwelcome company following his third eviction in barely twice as many months, had forced the listless detective out of the house at the crack of dawn. Apparently, it did not “do” to have one’s sporadically employed (and possibly mentally unhinged) younger brother moping about the house all day, terrifying the help.

“I recommend the blood-orange cake,” Mycroft suggested, sounding surprisingly amiable. The scent of sugar had always had a relaxing effect on him. Sherlock made a mental note to pack emergency doughnuts for future encounters.

“How can you eat such sickenly sweet, calorie-ridden pastries at this ungodly hour?” he whinged, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the cheery display of muffins, biscuits and tarts laid out before them. Mycroft pointedly ignored him.

“One slice of the blood-orange sponge cake, and the usual, if you please,” Mycroft said to the short, be-aproned man waiting patiently behind the counter.

“One sponge and a latté. Coming right up, sir.” Sherlock twitched. Why did café employees always feel the need to _repeat_ everything?

“And how may I help you, sir?” Sherlock grimaced as a pair of smiling cornflower-blue eyes turned towards him. “Would you like a latté as well?”

“ _Milk_.” Sherlock made the word sound like “rat poison.” “I’ll have tea in a to-go cup and three sugar packets, unbleached. Black tea. That means no milk, in case you were wondering,” he added with a sneer at the— _blond, bland, almost certainly brainless_ —young man.

“Right,” the blond said, rolling his eyes without a hint of embarrassment. “I think I can handle it.” He turned around, reaching for the decorative tin of loose-leaf Ceylon tea on display above the counter.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. _Interesting._

“You really ought to have ordered the latté, Sherlock,” Mycroft commented superciliously. “It’s Mrs. Hudson’s specialty.”

“Yes, who _is_ this Mrs. Hudson you keep going on about?” Sherlock quipped, momentarily distracted from the blond man, who was now straining piping-hot tea into a paper cup.

“She is the owner of this delightful establishment,” Mycroft explained, biting into his cake with almost indecent relish. “Delicious,” he muttered.

“Hmph,” Sherlock grumbled. Secretly, he was a little jealous of Mycroft; how could he eat like that and still retain his barely-plump figure? Sherlock was the thinner one, of course, but there was a reason he rarely ate. If he so much as _touched_ a sponge cake, it went straight to his waist.

“Here you are. One tea, black, in a to-go cup,” the rosy-cheeked blond announced, passing him the cup and three packets of raw sugar. “And not a drop of milk.”

Sherlock dug into the pocket of his coat for his wallet. “How much?”

The man shook his head, grinning. “It’s on me, since my tea-making skills are in question. Just—if you like it, come back.” Sherlock blinked. _Interesting._

He settled down at an obscenely tiny table in one corner of the café, barely aware of Mycroft’s aggravating presence at his side. As he sipped his— _surprisingly excellent_ —tea, he studied the young man behind the counter. The name “John,” proclaimed by nametag pinned to his apron, was dismissed almost immediately as useless. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of Johns in London alone. Instead, he raked his eyes over the man’s body, soaking in the details of his clothing, style, and mannerisms until he had gleaned enough to interest him. And “John” was, undeniably, an interesting man.

He was, by Sherlock’s estimation, between the ages of twenty-four and twenty-six, born in the mid eighties and therefore a card-carrying member of generation X, yet bizarrely ill informed on the use of the latest electronic equipment. This fact was surmised and then proven exactly six days and four hours later, when Sherlock observed John’s pathetic attempts at troubleshooting the café’s buggy wifi connection. It had nothing to do with lack of intelligence; while John was not of the Oxbridge set, he must have studied at a rather good university. Two and a half weeks of steady observation had yielded subtle signs of financial strain to Sherlock’s trained eyes: old clothes. Second-hand mobile. Tense phone conversations, which grew tenser towards the end of the month. Clearly the man had significant loans, and no family willing to share the debt. He had probably read some useless subject at uni that appealed to his high-minded, moralistic ideals; Philosophy or English or perhaps something in the social sciences—but not economics. He was, after all, working in a café.

Normally, this was where Sherlock’s attention would begin to wane, and he’d be distracted by someone newer and stranger and (preferably) more dead. But he found his curiosity about John oddly persistent. _There haven’t been any interesting cases recently_ , he told himself as he settled down at the corner table nearly four weeks later and opened his laptop to provide a reasonable cover for observation. _That’s why_.

And so Sherlock learned that John liked tea and beer and Mrs. Hudson’s jammy dodgers, but that he was trim in the way that twenty-somethings always seem to be no matter what they eat. He wore shapeless jumpers that said, “don’t give a damn if you’re looking” and arse-hugging jeans that said, “well, yes, don’t mind if you do.” John was five foot seven but seemed taller. John liked women. John liked men. John even seemed to like Sherlock, not that he’d done anything about it. He’d never even asked his name.

Sherlock shifted irritably in his too-small seat, watching as John poured a soy latté for a dull-looking customer in an equally dull navy suit. He was missing something, many things, in fact, that were necessary to complete his study of one John (surname still unknown), café employee, blond, blue-eyed, and _interesting_. Sherlock shook his head, annoyed with himself. _Interesting_ was an opinion, not a deducible fact.

“JOHN HAMISH WATSON!”

Sherlock didn’t bother to hide his smile as he turned back to the spreadsheet displayed his computer screen and carefully added “Hamish, Watson” under the column entitled NAME. _Excellent_. He could mount a proper background-check now…

A loud sigh interrupted his thoughts.

“It’s not that I’m against you indulging in a…distraction, but the _latté boy,_ Sherlock? Really?”

It was one of the rare occasions when Mycroft deigned to join him for tea at the corner table Sherlock had taken to calling “his.” He groaned, pulling his eyes away from his computer screen to glare at his— _obnoxious, interfering, insufferable_ —older brother.

“His name is John Watson,” Sherlock said acidly, crossing his arms. “And I hardly think _you_ could have anything to say to me on the subject of indulgence, _Mycroft_.”

“John Watson, latté boy,” Mycroft waved a hand airily over his chocolate hazelnut financier as if the difference was minimal. “When I suggested you obtain a flatmate for practical purposes, I thought you understood the implications.”

“If by ‘implications’ you mean one of the spineless, submissive half-wits your people vetted to cook me dinner and conduct your clumsy surveillance, then yes, I _understood_ ,” Sherlock replied, his lip curling. If anything, this whole situation was Mycroft’s fault. His obnoxious hints and suggestions— _Oh Sherlock, have you met James? He recently moved from Provence, and he makes a fabulous soufflé_ —had practically forced Sherlock’s hand. “Forgive me if I failed to find a suitable choice among your…selections.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft hummed, licking a stray bit of chocolate off his fork delicately. “I can easily assemble another collection of potentials, if you wish.” He scooped up a final bite, holding it out for Sherlock to taste. “You really ought to try the financier, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson is an artiste with fresh cream.”

“No, and _definitely no,_ ” Sherlock groaned. It was like talking to posh male version of Marie Antoinette, cake and all. “I already have a perfectly viable flatmate.”

“Him?” Mycroft sent a dismissive glance in the direction of the bar. “You haven’t even asked him to move in with you.”

“A minor problem.”

Mycroft rolled his napkin up and placed it neatly on the table beside his empty plate. “Have you ever even spoken to him? Beyond ordering tea,” he added, eyeing Sherlock’s paper cup askance.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “What do you _want_?” he snapped.

“Nothing,” Mycroft replied innocently, eyebrows raised. “Nothing at all. I can see you’re quite well by yourself.” He retrieved his umbrella from beside the table and tucked a twenty-pound note beneath his teacup. “A pleasure, as always Mrs. Hudson,” he intoned, nodding to her as he made his way towards the door.

“Come back soon!” Mrs. Hudson called cheerfully. “What a nice boy,” she said, turning to Sherlock. “Would you like anything else, dear?”

“No,” Sherlock replied brusquely.

“Very well then,” she said, shaking her head slightly as she cleared Mycroft’s dishes. “But may I mention that that particular tea is very good with milk? You can help yourself, right over there.” She gestured in the direction of milk and sugar station in the corner of the café. Sherlock grimaced and opened his mouth to retort, but Mrs. Hudson cut him off.

“Oh my, look at that! A spill,” she said, fingers fluttering over her apron. “How terrible, I shall have to send John to clean it up.”

Sherlock turned to look. The floor by the milk and sugar was spotless, not a drop of milk in sight. He frowned up at the— _eccentric, endearing, and evidently batty_ —café owner. “I don’t see anything.”

She smirked down at him, waggling a finger. “Not yet.”

She bustled off in the direction of the counter, leaving Sherlock staring after her. As he watched, she paused by the milk and sugar station and then—quite deliberately—picked up the jug of semi-skimmed and dumped a several cups on the floor. Sherlock barely managed not to gape. His dossier on Mrs. Hudson might require reevaluation.

When John appeared just a few minutes later, mop in hand, he closed his laptop and stood. He might not like accepting other people’s help, but Sherlock Holmes knew a cue when he saw one. A single step in the wrong direction—yes. That was all he needed.

“Ack! Are you alright?”

 


End file.
